


cracks of the skin

by oceanknives



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Fluff, mention of other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:54:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26009116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanknives/pseuds/oceanknives
Summary: If walls could tell stories, Esther and Ricky's would be their favourite.
Relationships: Ricky Matsui/Esther Sinclair
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	cracks of the skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Colleen of l4z fame](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Colleen+of+l4z+fame).



> This fic was a gift to my friend Colleen for L4Z's Secret Sappho event, and I now share it with the world! Ricky and Esther deserve all the domestic fluff in the world.  
> The title is from the song To Build A Home, and Rusty Clanton's cover of it is an old favourite.
> 
> Enjoy!

There was  _ something _ about Esther and Ricky's flat.

No one knew what, exactly, although the most learned might call it magic, and the most perceptive would call it love. But what everyone knew, was that it was obvious.

Somewhere between the framed selfies and family pictures near the front door and the rat plushie on the bedroom table, the matching umbrellas and the mismatched plates, Ricky's fireman jacket and Esther's leather bomber, somewhere in there, was something new, and truly good.

Maybe it was in the way Ricky carefully placed his axe in hooks on the wall, reverently, whereas Esther let her baseball bat rest wherever it wanted - on the couch, in the kitchen, one time in the bedroom. "Danger is everywhere," she said jokingly. Ricky thought she just liked having it with her, because she looked cool.

Maybe it was in the way they went through post-it notes alarmingly fast and insisted on leaving each other a ridiculous amount of messages. Ricky started drawing little selfies. Esther kept them on the inside of her door in the wardrobe. She wrote Ricky little love notes. He kept them pressed in a notebook. It was awfully high school of them.

Maybe it was in the bird feeder hanging from the kitchen window. Esther scowled a bit at the pigeons. Ricky insisted he had friends amongst them who deserved only the best seeds, and spent a little too much money on getting the highest quality possible. The pigeons were very grateful.

Maybe it was in the collection of books steadily gaining ground in their living room. Ricky still wasn't really sure what they were all about, but he liked hearing Esther talk about them. He got lost a bit, sometimes, while listening to her - the passion in her eyes was quite distracting. He still got overwhelmed, seeing how vibrant she could be in her emotions. It was a bit like staring at the sun. He never looked away.

Maybe it was in the Mr March picture stuck on the fridge - Ricky was quite mortified by it, especially considering it was June of the next year, but Esther always smiled at it. "Your abs look  _ really _ good on it," she would say. He would reply with a smile : "they look better in real life." What followed was a bit too private to share.

Maybe it was in the steady visits of friends and family, the constant smell of food and candles and warmth. The classic Broadway programs they got from Rowan, the desserts Sofia brought whenever she came by, the little magical artefacts Kingston had gifted them. The flat felt solidly like a home, no matter who was in it, and it was a bit addicting. Pete ended up passing out on their couch "by accident" a suspicious amount of times. He still had about three hats to get back.

Maybe it was in the walls, that had witnessed enough happiness and love to talk about it for a good year - if only they could. Adorned with posters and pictures and cards and maps and manuscripts, they felt like an intricate tapestry, a tale of two people woven into a city bigger than life, a story of belonging. A story waiting to be told.

Maybe it was in the food in the fridge and the spices on the shelves, the solid feeling of community and history and legacy bleeding into the table and silverware, the comfort of good food and good company. In the way Esther would untie Ricky's apron for fun, just to see the brief look of confusion on his face before he turned to glare at her. In the way he would start smiling when he saw her giggling face.

Maybe it was in the door, the common folk's portal. Ancient, solid wooden door with flaking eggshell-white paint, faded doorknob and heavy locks. It had memorised Ricky's spine after Esther had pressed him into it, kissing the life out of him, when the world was still adrenaline and everything was new and she was free of fear for the first time in forever.

Maybe it was in those singular things. Maybe it was in all of it. Maybe it was in the empty space between atoms. But in the end, it was there, and it was good, and it was theirs.

And that was enough.


End file.
